


in beautiful rooms

by AmbiguousPenny



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Folklore-Taylor Swift, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Poetry, Season Four References, Season Three References, The Monster - Freeform, illicit affairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:15:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26734954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmbiguousPenny/pseuds/AmbiguousPenny
Summary: In the midst of having his life taken over by the monster, Quentin searches for a piece of Eliot. What he finds is a piece of the story he didn’t have before.Nine poems written by Eliot, chronicling their illicit affair.A fic centered around a collection of poems inspired by Illicit Affairs by Taylor Swift
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29
Collections: A Million Little Times





	1. Immersive

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!!! So! I had pretty much given up on writing a fic for the Folklore event but then this idea smacked me up side the head! 
> 
> I would love love love some feedback on your experience with this fic as it is a trial run for a much bigger and much different AU that I have plans for! 
> 
> Chapter two has a more accessible transcript of this fic and it’s poems!

Quentin hadn’t been in this house since before... everything. Blackspire, Brian, his dad dying... everything. There was a party humming on the first level just how there always was, only it seemed wrong somehow. The laughter, the conversation, and the music; all of it wrong because it wasn’t them anymore. This wasn’t home anymore. He was standing outside of Eliot’s room with his hand on the doorknob. He wasn’t actually sure if it was still Eliot’s room or if someone else had taken it over after they’d had their indentities altered by the library. His heart thumped heavy in his chest, standing there, hand still on the doorknob. He didn’t want to know, he thought; if this room wasn’t Eliot’s anymore; if this was another piece of him gone. 

Taking a deep shuddering breath Quentin twisted the knob and pushed open the door The room smelt like Eliot, so much so that it overwhelmed him. The shock of it making his head spin. The bedroom had not been touched. Not since before. Every piece of it was Eliot, his big bed, his just shy of messy desk and the open closet filled with his clothes; button ups and silk waist coats. Everything was as it had been the night they had left for Castle Blackspire. Quentin sat on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes, let himself exist outside of the crisis from just a moment, let himself imagine that he was sitting on Eliot’s bed and that Eliot was okay; that Eliot was in his closet fussing over something to wear to an event that didn’t matter. Keeping his eyes closed Quentin let himself fall backwards, the soft landing he had anticipated inturrupted but the heavy thud of his head against something hard and solid. 

Quentin opened his eyes and turned to find a book laying on the bed behind him. Carefully he gathered himself up until he was sitting in the center of the bed, his feet tucked beneath him as he pulled the large leather bound book into his hands. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before, a book he’d gotten when he’d first arrived at Brakebills; standard for all first years: Popper's "Etudes for the Hand.” Quentin ran his hands over it’s cover before pulling it open. He wasn’t sure what he’d hoped to find inside of it, maybe notes in the margins, some trace of Eliot. Turning the cover over in his hand he barked out a short kind of laugh or the closest he’d come a laugh in a long time. 

“Property of: Quentin Makepeace Coldwater.” Of course, his copy of the textbook that he’d no doubtedly left in Eliot’s room at one time or another. He let out another maybe laugh, shutting the book. Maybe he would close his eyes, he thought, take a nap and breathe in what was left of Eliot around him. He picked the book up from his lap intending to move it to the mostly empty nightstand. His position in the center of the bed made his movements awkward as he reached to place the book on the nightstand, off kilter the tome tumbled to the floor in a rushing thud of paper against the carpet. Quentin let out a huff of air, because of course he couldn’t go without making a mess of things, and hoisted himelf up to peer over the edge of the bed. On the floor lay the book, and surrounding a fluttering of loose leaf pages and scraps of paper he didn’t recognize as his own from inside the book. Carefully leaning over the edge he gathered them up in his hands and settled himself against the headboard of Eliot’s bed. 

His heart lurched in his chest as his brain processed what lay there in his lap.He would have recognized this handwriting anywhere. Heartbeat hammering Quentin swallowed the lump in his throat and picked up the first piece of paper and began to read the looping scrawl of Eliot Waugh:

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190412582@N05/50402231191/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190412582@N05/50402529477/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190412582@N05/50402368778/in/dateposted-public/)

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190412582@N05/50402389783/in/dateposted-public/) [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190412582@N05/50403230622/in/dateposted-public/) [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190412582@N05/50403134901/in/dateposted-public/) [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190412582@N05/50403167046/in/dateposted-public/) [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190412582@N05/50403198166/in/dateposted-public/)

Quentin sobbed into the empty room. Choked on the grief of losing Eliot all over again. He hadn’t known the way Eliot felt, he’d been so wrapped up in the mess of it; in the wanting more than he had. He’d set off on his new quest thinking that had been the end of it. Quentin closes his eyes and tries not to think of Eliot, standing outside of his bedroom door as he lets Poppy fuck him, coming to some conclusion that Quentin had thought he’d already come to long before. He tries not to think of every way imaginable that things would be different now. He rubs the palm of his hand across the salt slide wetness of his tears and tries not to feel his heartbreak all over again. 

Sometime later when he’s at the edge of sleep the bed dips, and the room is cold and he doesn’t have to turn to know that it’s him. The not him, the imposter; the monster wearing his body like a costume. A cold hand curls around his shoulder and he’s too tired to flinch. 

“There you are Quentin.” He says and there is a shift in the space around him, and the room doesn’t smell like Eliot anymore. 


	2. Transcript

Quentin hadn’t been in this house since before... everything. Blackspire, Brian, his dad dying... everything. There was a party humming on the first level just how there always was, only it seemed wrong somehow. The laughter, the conversation, and the music; all of it wrong because it wasn’t them anymore. This wasn’t home anymore. He was standing outside of Eliot’s room with his hand on the doorknob. He wasn’t actually sure if it was still Eliot’s room or if someone else had taken it over after they’d had their indentities altered by the library. His heart thumped heavy in his chest, standing there, hand still on the doorknob. He didn’t want to know, he thought; if this room wasn’t Eliot’s anymore; if this was another piece of him gone. 

Taking a deep shuddering breath Quentin twisted the knob and pushed open the door The room smelt like Eliot, so much so that it overwhelmed him. The shock of it making his head spin. The bedroom had not been touched. Not since before. Every piece of it was Eliot, his big bed, his just shy of messy desk and the open closet filled with his clothes; button ups and silk waist coats. Everything was as it had been the night they had left for Castle Blackspire. Quentin sat on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes, let himself exist outside of the crisis from just a moment, let himself imagine that he was sitting on Eliot’s bed and that Eliot was okay; that Eliot was in his closet fussing over something to wear to an event that didn’t matter. Keeping his eyes closed Quentin let himself fall backwards, the soft landing he had anticipated inturrupted but the heavy thud of his head against something hard and solid. 

Quentin opened his eyes and turned to find a book laying on the bed behind him. Carefully he gathered himself up until he was sitting in the center of the bed, his feet tucked beneath him as he pulled the large leather bound book into his hands. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before, a book he’d gotten when he’d first arrived at Brakebills; standard for all first years: Popper's "Etudes for the Hand.” Quentin ran his hands over it’s cover before pulling it open. He wasn’t sure what he’d hoped to find inside of it, maybe notes in the margins, some trace of Eliot. Turning the cover over in his hand he barked out a short kind of laugh or the closest he’d come a laugh in a long time. 

“Property of: Quentin Makepeace Coldwater.” Of course, his copy of the textbook that he’d no doubtedly left in Eliot’s room at one time or another. He let out another maybe laugh, shutting the book. Maybe he would close his eyes, he thought, take a nap and breathe in what was left of Eliot around him. He picked the book up from his lap intending to move it to the mostly empty nightstand. His position in the center of the bed made his movements awkward as he reached to place the book on the nightstand, off kilter the tome tumbled to the floor in a rushing thud of paper against the carpet. Quentin let out a huff of air, because of course he couldn’t go without making a mess of things, and hoisted himelf up to peer over the edge of the bed. On the floor lay the book, and surrounding a fluttering of loose leaf pages and scraps of paper he didn’t recognize as his own from inside the book. Carefully leaning over the edge he gathered them up in his hands and settled himself against the headboard of Eliot’s bed. 

His heart lurched in his chest as his brain processed what lay there in his lap.He would have recognized this handwriting anywhere. Heartbeat hammering Quentin swallowed the lump in his throat and picked up the first piece of paper and began to read the looping scrawl of Eliot Waugh: 

I.

a coward

kept my eyes down 

stone fruit pit 

in my gut 

hands sticky with the heartbreak of it all 

i did not watch you wipe the tears away

i did not watch the way you swallowed 

around apologies you didn’t owe me

i wanted to say yes 

i still do

my regret lying

where I had 

left you sitting there

on the step 

II. 

our home 

had been a modest one

perfect for the family we’d built 

In all that time 

I remember it 

lying awake 

back

In this  beautiful room ; in this castle 

you are so far away 

from me here

so far away 

from that life

the memories of then

a hazy,

honey tinted dream 

but this bed feels wrong without you.

III.

this  clandestine thing 

began with so much 

innocence 

i had grown 

too accustomed 

to sleeping around you 

phantom

limbs tangled together

the security of your body 

against mine

a muscle memory 

that I could not shake 

so 

in the dark

I let the bed dip with the weight of you 

my heart cracked open

I wrapped myself 

In the dream of you 

And fell asleep

IV. 

that first night 

moonlight 

wrapped around 

the curve of your shoulder 

felt like we were anywhere 

but here 

i didn’t have to remember 

the feel of you 

nothing different than before

tucked away 

with only the instinct 

to love you 

touch you 

pull you into me 

drowsy in the dark 

of pre dawn 

in the warmth of my bed

our bed 

elsewhere 

had you here 

against me 

brought you in closer 

dragging teeth

against jaw

open mouth kisses

in the shadow of sleep 

hands in search of anything 

I let you swallow me whole.

called you baby, 

whispered it into your collarbone 

as I opened you up for me 

just like we had been there 

like this 

a million little times 

dancing 

lit on fire

burning in my core 

as we tumbled over the edge of it

coming

undone again.

V.

i run 

i always do

i am sorry, 

baby 

that I let you wake up 

in my bed 

without me 

left you 

there

let my side grow cold

left no trace.

VI. 

as a rule 

I always seem to want 

the things I won’t let myself have 

drawn to you 

like some 

cosmic inevitability

caught up in 

longing stares 

the answer is still 

the one 

neither of us 

want 

but we continue 

to collide 

in the hours 

between light 

golden secret

bodies 

scrambling

reaching out for 

beautiful pieces 

pouring myself into you

until we melt from the heat of it

the taste of you 

against my tongue 

your heart beat

against the guilt in my chest 

to have you like this 

when you’ve offered more 

for the sake 

of this slow motion crash of us

I ruin myself 

VII.

it’s the knowing 

where this will end

that haunts me

i know you

i know enough of myself 

to know I will 

make a godforsaken mess

of this 

of you 

this fleeting urge 

mixed up 

in the emotion of 

a life 

unlived 

this too will die

at the hands of me

VIII.

life partner 

partnered up 

i wanted to go

when you asked

would have followed you 

wherever 

to the end

it was a stupid thing to say 

it was a stupid thing to do

watching you walk away

set off to sea 

an idiotic fool 

this whole thing 

has made me 

easier to change my mind

without you here

I will meet you 

at the shoreline 

meet you in the middle 

fix this 

give it a shot 

IX.

you are 

the only one

i have ever 

needed

to be wrong about

wanted 

to be wrong about

but her hands

where mine were

someone new

i did this to myself

i guess 

i knew 

damn well 

Quentin sobbed into the empty room. Choked on the grief of losing Eliot all over again. He hadn’t known the way Eliot felt, he’d been so wrapped up in the mess of it; in the wanting more than he had. He’d set off on his new quest thinking that had been the end of it. Quentin closes his eyes and tries not to think of Eliot, standing outside of his bedroom door as he lets Poppy fuck him, coming to some conclusion that Quentin had thought he’d already come to long before. He tries not to think of every way imaginable that things would be different now. He rubs the palm of his hand across the salt slide wetness of his tears and tries not to feel his heartbreak all over again. 

Sometime later when he’s at the edge of sleep the bed dips, and the room is cold and he doesn’t have to turn to know that it’s him. The not him, the imposter; the monster wearing his body like a costume. A cold hand curls around his shoulder and he’s too tired to flinch. 

“There you are Quentin.” He says and there is a shift in the space around him, and the room doesn’t smell like Eliot anymore. 


End file.
